(TW: gory fight I think...)
The crowd was still cheering and shouting, they never seemed to stop doing this and in front of the convicted Celtic stood the man whom these cheers were supposed to spur on. A large brawny man clad in armor on his shoulders, legs and arms leaving the rest of his body exposed. The skin and metal warping his giant body both were soaked in blood, to which the audience responded like a bull. Glorified more than a conqueror emperor, he stood in the middle of the battlefield he had just won, surrounded by the bodies he had claimed their lives, some were gladiators just like himself while the majority were unarmed and undignified figures, probably running slaves or criminals just like Diarmuid. The glory of vanquishing these two different types of foes seemed equal. The purpose of these battles was not to prove the chivalry and strength of a warrior, it was the sheer joy of witnessing blood being shed, limbs being ripped off, and guts being spilled.
The scene would have had any ordinary person emptying whatever lied in their bellies, but the Celtic was used to such atrociousness but not for this sick purpose. He himself had cursed his enemies with the same horridness to which his fellows at the battle responded with cheers and hails as well, but these circumstances were two different things; he did so to protect his clan and dearest, to honor hos vows as a knight, not for the sake of sickening jubilation.
Diarmuid sighed quietly disgusted by the abyss he was forced to descend to, such an ugly and disgraceful end he had to face.
Though not an equal, Diarmuid was still not too far below his arranged foe if only in skills but that did not diminish his chances to null, for the lack of muscles was compensated by the unmatched agility the lancer possessed.
He would not die an easy prey, he was determined.
Just as the sign was about to be given, it came to a halt. The impatient crowds began to whisper and object to the delay, even the two fighting sides wondered what was going on but then everything came clear as a soldier approached the convicted slave.
"Our Lord has decided to grant you an opportunity. He will honor you with a weapon. Choose?"
Diarmuid raised his eyes to the decorated balcony; the lord was definitely the governor. What was his purpose? Did it come from pity, a notion he largely doubted, or out of making both fighting sides equal? Mixed feelings rose in the Celtic's heart but he still did not feel grateful; the idea of a Roman governor, any Roman for the matter, was detested but still that governor was able to sense the humiliation the Celtic warrior was feeling, he recognized the man's strength from a single view. Diarmuid's desire to fight and die with the slightest shred of honor he could maintain did not fail to reach the man watching from the high balcony. Regretful to waste such valor before witnessing it for himself, he decided to give the mutinous slave a chance to prove the power the governor's eyes assumed.
"A spear."
The soldier remained silent for a moment, surprised by the choice. He thought the slave would choose a more practical weapon, a saner man would chose a sword, easy to wave around with more chances to land hits even at random, as a spear needed more experience and delicate precision but then again, the soldier did not really care for the whole event so he said nothing and proceeded with his order.
At the sight of his soldier presenting a spear to the criminal slave, leaning his cheek on his fist, a smile of growing interest was drawn on the governor's pale lips.
The sign was given.
Diarmuid remained at his spot preferring not to take the first step recklessly unlike the gladiator who without hesitation approached his foe in a taunting way. This new fellow posed no bigger threat than the ones he had already broken their necks, even if he was armed now, this fight was still no more than a children game for him. His mocking features turned into a scowling horrifying ones as he launched his attack with a snarling shout harboring nothing but death.
The spear blocked the assaulting sword, though struggling in doing so as he could not withstand the weight of the unusually huge blade for long. The lancer had to retreat pushed aback by the forceful gravity of the gladiator the way his lance was pushed by the latter's sword. The gladiator nodded his head smiling, this quick retreat proved this battle to be no different than the previous ones, another attack and the miserable slave will collapse without a doubt or a time to ask for mercy. But contrary to his opponent, Diarmuid rushed nothing, he waited carefully for the wrestler's second attack that would help him determine his foe's fighting style and technique though he suspected he possessed any. His waiting did not take a long and his question was quickly answered. In the next second, the sword tip was pointed again at his chest, dashing forward like astir animal. There was no style or technique, it was a mere fight triggered by instinct and physical strength alone. Random yet precisely aimed strokes that accumulated their strength from being delivered excessively without rest, all of which the Celtic lancer managed to dodge thanks to his agility and presence of mind but he still could not lay a single strike on his opponent. These facts irritated the two warriors, the gladiator now realized he was facing no ordinary slave, he was facing a former soldier, a skilled one at that and the confident lancer knew this would not be an easy win despite the lack of a plan or fighting scheme.
The two warriors breathed slowly facing each other, neither keen on losing. This thought was out of the question, they were both seeking something out of this duel, one to gain glory and life, the other to keep his honor and die gracefully.
Moving more prudently now, the gladiator carefully attacked the slave keeping an eye on the lance that disappeared and reappeared like a deceitful snake and a snake that spear indeed was, finally managing to thrust his fang into his prey's chest as soon as it found a blind spot through the steel armor. During every contact the two warrior's had, the lancer did not miss a chance to study his foe's armor closely, searching for a deadly opening which was uncovered first by his eyes then by his lance.
But the battle would not end that easily, the robust man would not succumb and fall to such wound. Forgetting pain, the gladiator stood again, swaying a little but holding to his weapon strongly. If he was to live, he had to finish this brawl as fast as possible.
Releasing another shout, more frightening and louder than his previous one, the gladiator attacked, his sword encountering the lance again but he was not sufficed with using his sword alone this time. His other hand was free to grasp the slave from his neck, pushing him down like a raw storm. the Celtic collapsed on the ground struggling for air as the gladiator kneeled slowly determined on breaking his foe's neck after he disarmed him of his weapon. Now stripped from his spear, Diarmuid kept a hand on the one choking him trying uselessly to remove it while his other hand continued to punch the gladiator only to land on the steel armor almost getting broken with every strike. Excited by the applaud of the cheering crowds, the day's victor tightened his fingers around the struggling man's neck.
Such a lame ending, and just after he was given a chance. He could not lose now, the Celtic thought, but it was impossible to push that giant body while deprived of air, but if he were to win, he had to do so while on the ground, in that confined position.
The hand that was trying to penetrate the armor slowly fell motionless. At the sight of his opponent giving up gradually, the gladiator smiled in victory, hand determined to crush the bones of the slender neck he surrounded without forgiveness.
The governor, watching the events from his balcony, still leaning his head on his hand, wore a huge disappointment on his noble face as his generosity was wasted and his insight betrayed. But then, just when he though so, the giant figure occupying a certain spot in the arena, bent forward and so immersed on crushing the man beneath him staggered like an oak tree chopped down. The governor leant forward as did everyone in the audience as the proclaimed victor of the day collapsed on his back revealing a tinier figure beneath him holding a sword's blade.
Just like the tricky lance, the lancer's hands only faked motionless, tricking the enemy's eyes before sneaking again to take hold of the neglected sword's blade grasped lightly in the gladiator's hand, forcing the giant's hand and aiming the blade at its owner at the same spot he had hit and injured tearing the flesh and deepening the would he had inflicted few minutes ago.
The cheers and acclamation poured like thunder again, first aimed a victorious gladiator, now that he fell defeated and dead, adding his own corpse to the piles of corpses he created, they were aimed at the killer with the same enthusiasm and excitement. These hurrahs were not meant for a specific warrior, a favored hero, they were meant for anyone who could kill and did this the most brutal and savage way.
Though surprised by this turn of event, the disappointment did not vanish from the governor's face but it lessened anyway. Using the enemy's weapon to kill him while the latter is immersed in his own joy of killing was witty indeed but it was not elegant. The mysterious eyes of the young governor's was seeking elegance in battle and they still have not received it throughout the entire show.
Diarmuid straightened up inhaling the air as if it would run out at any moment. He looked at the wound on his opponent's dead body reflected by the latter's own sword. His eyes emanated no satisfaction or happiness by this victory, because this victory had to be a certainty for the Celtic lancer. As the first knight of his tribe, he could not allow himself to lose to such an ignorant foe.
But the battle was not over yet. Taking his spear from the ground, the Celtic turned around to face the six gladiators that marched into the arena from the same door he had entered from, wearing their full battle equipment, unlike the way he entered.
The audience stirred in their places like kids about to open a secret gift; the outcome of another exciting massacre.
The more professional gladiators, happy by the defeat of a rising threat yet at the same time angered to had had him eliminated at the hand of a traitorous menial slave, attacked their foe all at once. They wielded weapons and chains of various sizes and shapes, some even held round firm shields as well.
Armed with a sole weapon, the Celtic tightened his grasp around the spear he had, he was kind of disappointed since he hadn't got the chance to employ his favorite weapon in the defeat of his first combatant, but now he had more than enough opponents to quench the blood - thirsty spear.
Waving the long fang masterfully around his waist and back enchanting the spectators' eyes while his true purpose was to take his appropriate battle stance, aiming the lethal tip at the horde approaching him. By doing so, though perhaps not intentionally, he managed to provoke the armored warriors by these bold confident moves. The gladiators went forth like one behemoth clump of human flesh toward their mutual enemy.
One versus six, even the proud Celtic realized the possibility of death as inevitable outcome when he reached for his spear on the ground. He had faced twice and thrice that number of enemies while on the run with his beloved, back then his death meant his fidelity to Grainne and his life proved his feelings and congealed their shared promises of love and eternity. But now his death carried no meaning, weighing the same as his life as he had nothing now to protect or look toward to except said death. He knew the number of foes will grow and the hours will stall until the judges and audience are satisfied by his death. Thus, to die bravely while fighting without giving up no matter how long the hours grew or the opponents rolled up became his only intent.
The audience never stopped yelling and shouting, shaming the prisoner while encouraging "the bearers of justice" but when astonishment befell upon their eyes as they understood what they were witnessing was no ordinary battle, and whom their pupils followed was no ordinary warrior either, their voices unified in calls of encouragement for the man they condemned.
The weather was clear and the sky majestically polished like an empyrean sapphire, no gusts of wind lulled the peacefully hanging few clouds or stirred the sleeping dust on the ground except in the arena where a hurricane stormed the place, spun by plucking everything crawling among it, spun by the doomed man and directed by the lethal spear swiftly manipulated between the right and left arms of the former knight depending on what the fight needed, piercing and shattering flesh and steel with the same ease and dexterity, draining the blood it spilled like it was fountains of eternal youth and power while discarding bones and guts on the slimy ground like they were trophies of war.
That was not a fight designated to end in death.
As the single spear beckoned like an unearthed ruby to the star of the morning, swaying to its own wind with the pliancy of pellucid whip mended of air, transparent and light yet frostily deadly, the motives and desires of its wielder were no longer that complicated and deep, they were suddenly simplified to the sole desire not to die. The instinct to survive that emanated from his soul with the same swiftness of his changing fate, without his consent or awareness, supplied the lancer's arm with the force of a ten thousand warriors and his blade with the briskness and sharpness of a hawk's talon.
He received wounds, plenty and serious, but he felt no pain or agony. Instead, the warm blood that gushed out of every ripped muscle and cut vessel heated his body with the power of persistence, though to what purpose or for whose sake he could not tell. Entering into some sort of a frenzy, the pain of these injuries turned into joy, he relished his own suffering the way he relished inflicting it upon his enemies. His mind took pleasure in spilling his rivals blood and in watching his own blood being spilled.
Now that the gladiators number was reduced only to two, the hungry predators, agitated by the smell of blood and the sight of flesh, were finally released into the field. Baring their fangs and tusks, they assaulted the two fighting sides, bringing to the already heated battle more violence and savagery. The feral animals did not hasten finished off a mortally wounded gladiator, then aimed their claws at the last two remaining fighters.
To the crazed warrior who did not mind fighting the devil at that moment, these growling animals were no different than the other combatants he had already put out of their misery; they presented the same threat of death and triggered the same desire for survival, thus they were to receive the same red fate.
The now dyed - red spear splattered the fur and blood of the wild animals injuring some and finishing others. The other surviving gladiator did the same while both fighters did not forget to direct blows at each other whenever the chance permitted, but the latter's lifespan was shortened as he got stuck with a rampant tiger. Losing an arm to the keen canines, the gladiator rolled and writhed on the ground, horrible agonized screams filling the air. He was finally shut as his throat was pierced to eternal silence, not by the incisive fangs of the rapacious animal, by that of the rapacious tip of the lance.
The tiger was the only foe opposing the prisoner, maddened with the scent of blood, the last remaining warrior was no different than the animal's in its lust for living. Everyone watching was expecting the tiger to commence the battle, but it was the lancer who burst toward the growling beast, who accepted the invitation and charged at him as well. Both still parched and desiring the other's blood, the tiger jumped in the air with the same agility the spear swayed with, but his claws were heavier and more potent as the forelimb broke the spear in two burying it in the ground. Resuming his attack with his other limb, Diarmuid bent down, and caught the sword of the tiger and his last prey, slashing the beast's neck with it but by doing so, his feet seemed to slip preventing him from deepening the wound and reaching a fatal artery, as he disappeared under the gigantic launching corpus. The acclaiming crowds began repining for the waste of that slave dying in the end after all of his struggle. It was a harsh irony that did not please the enchanted audience who desired to applaud one last time for the unmatched warrior monster who fascinated but they were wrong. It was not too late to applaud as that slip of feet was a gift from heaven. The prisoner who disappeared for a moment beneath the giant body that desired to crush him under his weight as if in a final act of revenge for his wounded neck re - emerged beneath the stripped fur, kicking with is left foot the pointed part of the spear from the earth into his own hand while still clinging stubbornly to the sword wedged in the tiger's neck, piercing the animal's heart with unseen easiness as the lancer was a dual wielder of both a long and a short spear.
The agile figure rose to his feet, his lance fearlessly extracting the heart of the animal and waving it at the gasping crowds.
A Robust yet lithe body, furiously standing in the middle of the death field he had wreaked, intimidating any one daring to approach with the blood drenched spear, elegantly and appallingly at once like a statue of a vengeful Greek God. Strangely yet charmingly, the crimson flowers that bloomed over every inch of his body added more bright and divinity to his beauty. The bold sculptured features never looked more tempting yet forbidden, leaving the hearts of the beholders struggling fruitlessly to seek the interdicted beauty that proclaimed destruction yet held enchantment like a dual spell. Tousled hair, flashy eyes, disdainful lips, and a menacing stance, all assembled to create another image of bewitching devastation.
Applaud shook the arena like an earthquake but the hails of admiration were returned with an indifferent stare. This show was not put for the audience insolent pleasure, it was performed for the performance's own amusement and revenge. Only one face among the excited impressed faces the pair of bronze were scrutinizing did not share the others' enthusiasm and shouting. Reflecting the same indifference and lack of interest that was in the bronze eyes, that small gloomy face stared coldly at the prisoner turned a hero, as if the emerald orbs acknowledged nothing of this claimed glory.
Now this act of mutual disdain drew the interest of the celebrated warrior, his narrowed contemptuous eyes kept looking at the young woman in the blue robe and veil as if daring her to enter the arena and state her thoughts but this invitation, though received and comprehended, was not answered because things had not ended yet, this was the message the green eyes were translating to the temporary victor. Indeed, he was still a criminal waiting judgment, now his fate laid between the governor's hands alone.
The crowds that came to gloat over the rightful punishment of a noble Roman citizen's traitorous slave, now cheered to the victory of the presumed murderer, imploring mercy for the great lancer forgetting all about their fellow esteemed citizen. All eyes stared at the young man observing from his balcony asking humbly and eagerly to spare the brave warrior's life, some even dared to demand this mercy out load, including the arena's owner, his eyes pleading the most, drooling over the gift he was unexpectedly presented; an unmatched gladiator that could double his fortune and fame endlessly.
Everyone beseeched mercy except the convicted whose darkening orbs looked at the governor boldly. He was indifferent to his judgment; he had fought this battle ending it in a massacre for the sake of his life, be it not given, he shall extract it even by the death of that governor.
At last, the slim figure stood shedding upon that theater of death his gracefulness. The blond head lowered its unfathomed gaze meeting the criminal's intrepid stares that promised death. Obscured by the distance between the two men, the lancer could not see what expression the blonde's eyes held.
Was there a faint of a smile? Perhaps something like that curled on the lips of the icy young woman beneath her veil.
The governor raised his thumb up.